and now i know for sure there is no cure
by TheeMizKitty
Summary: On the streets of a lost Paris, in the places where the brothels operate, love can eat away all depravity


and now I know for sure there is no cure

Pairing: Arthur/ Eames

Rating: Soft R

Disclaimer: I do not own Inception or affiliated characters.

../..

Arthur blames his cousin for this. For his current predicament of roaming these streets, these ghettoes where the prostitutes eye him eagerly with a poacher's eye and the thieves wait in the shadows just waiting for him to let his guard down. There might even be a murderer or two lurking in the places that he cannot see, but he doesn't look that hard; he doesn't really want to know.

It isn't Cobb's fault, not really, even though he is the one that sent Arthur here. Cobb was just trying to be a good friend to him, understanding like all men that Arthur needed time to release, a nice place to bury his cock in that wasn't already completely used up. And the streets of Paris and the prostitutes that roamed all over them, there was certainly plenty of them too used up.

He sees them with their blood shot eyes and their skeletal figures, beautiful in only what they offer between their legs, licking scarlet smeared lips and shouting out to anyone, to nothing. He avoids a group of them, these fickle, desperate creatures of the night that will jump on him with urgency not normal to a human being, not anymore. Still, they see him. Still they call out prices and fees and filthy things in a slurred accent, in a raw voice.

"Please, please Monsieur…"

He clutches the address in his pocket like a lifeline. Another couple streets to go amongst this mess and he would be there and soon, it would all be done, the man inside of his satisfied and he wouldn't have to deal with this anymore for hopefully another year, even though Cobb would try to say otherwise.

"_But Arthur, I understand you don't like women but there are plenty of men too you could find…why wait another year? I know a man, an 'escort extraordinaire' he calls himself, who is willing to let you have a night with him. Here's his address. His name is Eames."_

The address Cobb had given him leads him to a rather inconspicuous apartment that doesn't look any different than the other darkened houses that surround the cobbled streets and spear up to the sky. He raises his hand and knocks once, twice, and the door swings open to reveal a rather pretty brunette with a low cut black gown on. She stares at him speechlessly for a long moment as he fumbles for words.

"Hello Mademoiselle, I am here—"

"I know why you are here Monsieur," she cuts him off rather quickly, before grabbing him by the front of his suit jacket and dragging him inside.

The floors are a lovely black marble that reflects in the light of the candles on the sconces lining the wall as she shuts the door with a faint thud and turns to face him, her expression still inscrutable.

"You are here for Eames, are you not?" she asks and he notices for the first time that her accent is American, like his.

"Yes, I am Mademoiselle….?"

"Ariadne," she tells him shortly, moving past him to grab a lantern off of a rickety table in the corner. It is only then that he sees that they are not alone, that there are other men and women seated at another table by a window in the back, spread out and watching him with dark eyes.

One of them, a woman with curling dark hair and flashing brown eyes, stands up.

"You must be the Lord Arthur Dom has told me would come tonight," she says, her dress making only the faintest of hissing sounds as she steps up in front of him.

Arthur arches a curious brow. "You…know Cobb?"

The enigmatic woman grins and her teeth are like a row of pearls. "Yes, Monsieur, I do. Cobb is a…patron of mine."

"He's never mentioned you," Arthur says casually, even though he is startled. He should have known that Cobb knew about Eames from someone else; he should have realized that this pretty French woman was probably the reason Cobb was not yet married.

"My name is Mal," the woman tells him, "and you can tell him that I can no longer see him for a while."

That said, Mal sweeps elegantly out the door and into the night, leaving Arthur standing there staring after her until Ariadne places a small hand on his arm.

"Eames is waiting for you upstairs," she says, handing him the lantern. In its flickering light, her big brown eyes look almost sad. "Have fun."

And then she is moving away from him to join the others clustered in the back that continues to watch him and study him.

For a moment he just looks at the block tile of the staircase, of the floor, flicker in the light as though it is alive. The flame is bright in his eyes. He ascends the stairs and doesn't look back.

The room is cold and dark and there is a bed directly in the center of it, the only thing in the room. The curtains are drawn over the windows, thick heavy things, but he thinks that the sheets twined on the bed are silk, and it takes him aback. Just how popular are the residents of this particular brothel then?

There is movement from the far corner of the room that he wouldn't have caught if he hadn't been looking for it. He didn't know what he had been expecting Eames to look like; he hadn't really thought about what Eames would look like at all actually, in the haste to just get this over and done with to satisfy Cobb.

"You must be Eames then," he says, even as his throat clogs up and his brain seems to stop all thought for a moment. Eames is gorgeous. Of course he is, for the popularity he apparently has, but Arthur hadn't expected this, the rugged features, the sparkling gray eyes and the lips, oh God, those _lips._ Full and pouty they took precedence over everything else in Arthur's world for an entirely long moment and only the appearance of Eames' body, clad in only a thin robe, takes his attention away from them. All muscle and sinew, Eames' body is lovely all on its own but paired with that face….

"Who else were you expecting it to be darling? But then again, I am good at being whatever you want me to be," Eames tells him in a perfect French, but Arthur thinks he can hear the traces of another accent underneath.

Eames moves around the bed closer to him with the sleekness of a hunter, seemingly perfectly comfortable clad before him in only a threadbare robe and a sly smirk. It is an expression that makes something inside Arthur's chest cavity jump.

Eames stands before him expectantly and for the first time in years, Arthur finds that he cannot think of a single thing to say, let alone something clever.

"Do you want the money now or….?" He says at length, testing the waters as Eames just continues to stare at him. He thinks for a moment that he sees something in those grey eyes, mischievous and clever, flash before Eames is waving a hand and letting out a deep rumbling laugh that travels the length of Arthur's spine.

"No rush, _Cheri, _no rush at all. Did you want to talk first or are you a straight forward kind of guy?"

Arthur really can't believe it, but for a moment he can almost feel heat in his cheeks. He can't possibly be _blushing _over that…

He clears his throat awkwardly as one of Eames' big hands start to creep across his vest, the touch burning straight through to his skin. There is another flash in Eames' eyes as Arthur reaches up and catches one of those hands, already halfway undoing his vest, within his own slender one.

"You're English, aren't you?" he asks quietly and Eames tilts his head back, studies him for a moment. In Arthur's hand his fingers, surprisingly calloused, twitch once, twice.

"Yes, and you're American." Eames replies easily, switching over from French to English without batting an eyelash. "What's a rich bloke like you doing looking for escorts, especially since you're so lovely? Don't you have a girlfriend to do this with?"

Without meaning to, and Arthur really knows that he didn't mean to, Eames' words hit a sore spot inside of Arthur that hasn't entirely healed over yet.

"I didn't think that this would be an interrogation about my life Mr. Eames," he snaps, and immediately regrets it as Eames' smile seems to start to grow false, as the fingers stop twitching with his hand.

"My apologies then love, what else do you want to talk about then?"

And for a moment Arthur feels helpless, just like he did so many years ago back in the states waiting to see what his father would yell at him for. He feels helpless just like he did when his mother died and he hadn't tried to help her; helpless like the time he watched poor beg for money that he knew he could give them but wouldn't, couldn't.

"Do we have to talk at all?" he says, hoping Eames won't see the way he turns his face slightly away. But Eames, face dancing in the play of the fire, takes the lantern from him and sets it on the floor, squeezes Arthur's slender hand with his rough one.

"I suppose we don't, then, Mr. Arthur."

"Just Arthur is fine, Mr. Eames," Arthur sighs and tries not to jump in surprise when Eames starts to finish unbuttoning his vest, when his hand breaks from Arthur's hold to hover gently underneath of his neck. He looks up at Arthur from under his lashes as he steps closer, all hot skin and smoky breath, to hover in front of Arthur's face.

"If you're going to be fucking me, it's just Eames please."

And just like that Arthur is completely hard.

"Just Eames?" he repeats, knowing he sounds slightly strangled but no longer caring as he reaches out to place his hands on broad shoulders, almost smiling as Eames leans into his touch.

"Or anything else you want me to be," Eames breathes and Arthur know then that he wants to kiss this man, wants to kiss him more than he has ever wanted to kiss anyone before and for a moment he is almost terrified.

"Just Eames is…fine," he stutters out, feeling one of those hands drift down towards his pants, the buttons holding them together. "Eames…"

"I thought you wanted to get this over with darling?" Eames whispers to him and Arthur bites back a moan at the feeling of the hot breath on his neck and he can just imagine what those lips will feel like…. He struggles to stay above the water of his desire, but he knows it is slowly drowning him, drowning him in this British escort who Arthur feels—who feels—

"Why do you call me that?" he gasps out, as Eames hand reaches into his pants, touches his throbbing cock.

"What, Arthur?" Eames' lips are as soft as they look as they touch his neck, his thundering pulse point. His hand skims lightly, up and down, up and down, over Arthur's burning cock. It is everything and not nearly enough.

"No, darling."

Arthur breaths out, his hands clutching at Eames' hair, his shoulders, everything as those lips start to suck a mark into his skin, as the grip around his cock grows tighter and tighter until Arthur can barely breath—

"But you are darling you know," Eames whispers right into his ear, his body fitting nearly perfectly against Arthur's more slender one and Arthur is dizzy and Eames has the loveliest shade of grey for his eyes—

"Eames—" he gasps, just once like a prayer almost, but it is enough as Eames suddenly surges forward and those lips that are so soft and big are burning into Arthur's, teeth scraping with nails and the hand on his cock twists and Arthur doesn't think as he nearly growls, breaking away to push Eames back onto the bed, onto the tangled sheets as the robe slips off and there is just skin, so much skin to be devoured but Arthur can't leave that mouth that tastes like stale cigarettes and whiskey, not quite yet.

"It's been a long time since I was sincerely attracted to someone, darling," Eames pants somewhere into his mouth and Arthur eats it up, an animal alive within his skin that wants all of this man, this man that he doesn't know but is touching him there, so lovely, and panting his name and he wants him, all of him, even though there is nothing left but this, but this, to give.

Afterwards, lying in semen with Eames draped like a second skin across his chest, Arthur doesn't remember ever feeling so relaxed. He doesn't remember ever smiling like he knows he is now, smiling over nothing, smiling up at Eames who is just smiling back, all fucked out and lovely and warm across Arthur.

"Bloody hell that was fantastic darling," the Englishman whispers into the shell of Arthur's ear, leaning down a little more to bite at it. Arthur hums in agreement, turning into the attentions.

"Now I understand why people like sex so much," he sleepily mutters, and Eames pauses the delicious thing he is doing with his tongue to cast a startled look to Arthur.

"What do you mean darling? You never liked sex?"

Realizing that he has given himself away, Arthur just sighs heavily and avoids Eames eyes, instead looking over to the clothes piled on the floor.

"Arthur…?" Eames hesitantly reaches out, touches the side of his face, and Arthur sighs again.

"It's...not that I don't like sex it's just I never really…enjoyed it much. I like the release but I mean, I can live without it," he confesses quietly into the skin of Eames' palm, turning his head slightly to gauge the other man's reaction. Eames eyes are soft and gentle and make Arthur shiver as the Englishman purposely leans down and licks his way into Arthur's mouth, and thus another bout of sex begins.

Somewhere during it, into sweaty skin, Arthur thinks he hears Eames whisper "I want to change your mind."

And he thinks, blurred, dazed, one white hot writhing mess, that Eames could be the one to do that.

It is a night that feels like a dream. But all dreams end and everyone has to wake up back to reality. Arthur says goodbye to Eames when he is still naked on the bed and Arthur wants nothing more than to join him again. It is a frightening thought yet Arthur doesn't look away, not when Eames kisses his hand and calls him darling.

"Where do you want the money?" he asks and the words stick in his mouth and rumble about in his stomach. Because this is what it really comes down to then, the money; everything else is just a perfect act that may or may not have broken Arthur's heart.

Eames stares at him for a long moment, before he holds out his hand. A hand that has left claw marks on Arthur's back, a hand that has held him down and pulled him up in equal turns. Arthur can still feel it wrapped around his cock as he hands over the wad of bills, folded so neatly for something so messy.

"Thank you darling," Eames tells him quietly and Arthur looks away, to the dark curtains that the sun can barely pass through and the city outside.

"Why do you do this?" he asks without really meaning to, without expecting an answer.

But Eames gives him one, touching the pulse in Arthur's wrist and making him look into those eyes and see the quirk of the luscious lips. "It is all I have," he tells him, nonchalantly, simply. And maybe it is simple, to just fall into bed with someone and pretend that it is whoever you want it to be. Arthur wonders if Eames thought of another man when Arthur was inside him; he feels bile creep up his throat and hates his thoughts, hates this man that is so perfectly wrecking his heart.

He leaves Eames without another word.

../..

When he talks to Cobb about Mal, about Eames about everything a day later, Cobb just smiles, deflates.

"Lovely creatures to destroy you aren't they?" he laughs and it is bitter, like the ashes of the cigarette in his mouth that are falling to the ground. "So lovely and so destructive that you are mesmerized in the sickest of ways. I can never really stop thinking about her Arthur. Mal is always there."

"But does she…love you?" Arthur hesitates, fumbles, because really, how can Mal love in the life she leads. Just like Eames. Money pressed into hands and money sealed behind lips and that is all, that is all.

"Love?" Cobb repeats and it sounds nearly like a hollow word, like 'the' or 'end'. It is hollow and empty and so are Cobb's eyes, empty glasses fogged up with cigarette smoke. "I don't think any of them know what love is Arthur."

And Arthur remembers Eames' words: _this is all I have_. All he has but he can have more, Arthur thinks, he can know more if he just gets the chance and if Arthur can just get him out of his head or to be with him again, maybe just one more night, maybe more.

Cobb looks at him like he can read his thoughts. "You're going back."

Arthur says nothing, just stands up, grabs his coat and walks out into the rain.

../..

Eames is there waiting for him the next night, the night after that, too many nights and not enough nights, all tangled in the sheets and lost in the skin between Eames neck and shoulder. Arthur loses money but he doesn't feel it, doesn't really care in the moments where it counts, where he is deep inside Eames or Eames is deep inside him.

He only cares the day after when he finds Eames waking him with kisses and telling him he has to go, he has to leave. Arthur always leaves the money on the floor by the bed and Eames never really even looks at it in favor of kissing Arthur one last time, just once more.

Arthur hates what is happening to him, these emotions that seem to take control of his body like a disease or a parasite and destroy him from the inside. He has to leave Paris soon because this had all just been a vacation, a reprieve from work back in England, but he can't seem to pack, can't seem to even think about boarding a ship and forgetting the dark floors and the grey of Eames' eyes.

There has to be an end, he knows and he knows just how he really wants it to end but it isn't possible. It's not.

Another night passes and Eames kisses him into unconsciousness.

../..

He hasn't seen Mal since that first night and he doesn't tell Cobb because one look at the hunched figure, the glassy eyes, and Arthur knows that he has already figured it out.

Mal might have left Paris, she might have moved or she might have succumbed to death. In this city, in the life she thrust herself into, anything is possible.

Arthur thinks, one morning after leaving Eames naked and languid on the bed like so many times before, that he sees a flash of blonde and brown hair out of the corner of his eye and he looks to the corner of the street where a courtesan with short brown hair is kissing a blonde man goodbye.

He doesn't look close enough to see if it really is Mal and Cobb but just walks on, splashes through puddles.

He tries to stay a way for a night and he succeeds but he is plagued by nightmares and insomnia and the heavy weight of desire that seems to burn his soul. Paris, the city of love. Paris, the city of the damned.

He wonders if Eames cares where he even is and laughs at himself, bitterly; tragically, choking on what might be tears.

When he arrives at the apartment the next night Ariadne answers the door again, for the first time since the first night and she doesn't look the least surprised to see him.

"You're back," she states in an American accent and it is then that Arthur begins to understand that everyone in this building can be more than one person; they can be whoever you want them to be and they will put on any act to survive.

"I need to see Eames," he tells her, pushing his way inside when she doesn't really respond. The men and women from the last couple of nights are all gone and the little apartment building is silent, all black floors and flickering lights and Arthur thinks, ridiculously, of Hades, of old mythology and the Underworld. "Where is Eames?"

Ariadne lets out the faintest of sighs and in the dim light Arthur can barely make out the twist of her lips, the lines of exhaustion on her face. When she doesn't say anything Arthur begins to feel the dregs of dread drift into his heart, his stomach, his pulse.

"Is he with someone?" he asks even though it is painful because he needs to know and there is money in his pockets, money to feel alive again.

"No, he isn't with anyone," Ariadne admits after a tense minute, her eyes glimmering oddly in the lights. "After you left yesterday morning he told me that he wasn't sure he could do this anymore. He told me that he finally found something he's been searching for and he…."

Arthur can scarcely believe it, really, but he can't contain the way his pulse is racing in the thin skin of his wrist as he reaches out and urgently grabs her arms, shakes her slightly, desperate and wild like he knows he always will be for Eames.

"He what Ariadne? Where is he?"

"Not here," she tells him softly, the poor girl knowing she is breaking something inside of him, something that may or may not be his heart. "He left yesterday and I don't know where he went."

Arthur tries not to shake her again, he really does. "You don't have any idea where he might have gone?"

"Paris is a big city Monsieur," she says, "and he is just one man. He may not be in Paris anymore."

Arthur wants to hit something but he doesn't. The girl beneath his hands is delicate, her bones so brittle and breakable that he is surprised that she is still alright, still here in this place that is empty and desolate but might fill later when the wealthy looking for fun emerge. He reaches into his pocket and presses the money into her palm.

"Get something to eat," he tells her, "You don't deserve to do this to yourself."

The young courtesan smiles at him, bitter and crooked on her unpainted lips. "I might not deserve it, but it's what I have to do. Eames was lucky to get out of here and wherever he went, I think he might be looking for you Monsieur."

Arthur let out a long breath. "Do you really think so?"

She just looks at him, kohl lined eyes and delicate bones wrapped in pale skin. "You're the reason he left in the first place."

"Thank you," is all Arthur can say, pressing the money more firmly into her tiny hand before he turns and leaves the dark apartment with the liquid black floors and knows he will never return.

../..

Eames is standing at his front door when Arthur returns home, smoking a cigarette and standing under the overhang to avoid the rain. The neighbor next door to Arthur is peering out her window at them but Arthur barely notices; all he notices is that Eames is at his door and staring back at him. He hardly knows what to do.

"Hello," he says at last, lost for anything else to say as Eames stubs out his cigarette, as those full lips quirk at him in that sly smile he had traced with his lips over and over again.

"Hello," Eames replies easily enough before he steps forward, out into the street and into Arthur's arms in one fluid move, and what can Arthur do but close his arms around him?

"This is against everything I've ever known," Eames sighs into his neck and it is so strange and yet so familiar that Arthur just holds him closer, closer. "I still don't really know why I'm here. It's just, I felt something that I didn't expect to ever feel with you and you may think me crazy but…well, here I am Mr. Arthur."

"It's just Arthur."

Against his skin Eames' lips curve into a grin. "Just Arthur?"

Arthur just smiles, feels his heart tattoo itself into his ribcage, into Eames. "Just Arthur."

../..

They leave Paris together the next day, Eames a steady presence beside him as they board a boat for England. Cobb watches them board with a small little smile on his face, his lips slightly red from what Arthur now knows are Mal's kisses.

Arthur wishes him happiness before he boards and it feels slightly unjust, with Eames at his side and Mal somewhere in some dirty little room entwined with another man, but she had made her choice, and Eames had made his.

Arthur still can't believe that he had chosen him, how something so dirty had somehow turned into something beautiful and Arthur feels dizzy from it, and only feels steady when one calloused hand grabs his.

They watch Paris fade away and they watch France fade away, saying nothing because there is nothing to be said but Eames voice in his ear, rough and lovely in a way only the heart can make it, calling him 'darling' into the sea.


End file.
